[Day 3]
Lance stumbled, his hand slapping against the rough brick wall to steady himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. The world tilted and swayed around him, a nauseating rainbow of colors and shapes.
Not again.
He blinked hard, trying to focus on the street sign ahead. Pharmacy. Just another block. His legs felt like sacks of rice soaked through by a monsoon rain and left to ferment in the sweltering heat of a forgotten warehouse.
A woman hurried past, giving him a wide berth. Her eyes darted nervously in his direction, a makeshift mask of fabric covering half her face.
Yeah, lady. I’d avoid me too.
Lance pushed on, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sidewalk seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a concrete ribbon mocking his feeble attempts at progress.
Should’ve stayed home.
But the news of the cure discovery pushed him onward. The urgent broadcast still burrowed through his fevered thoughts: a cure developed just in time, with instructions to get treated at the nearest pharmacy immediately. His survival instinct overrode his exhaustion. If he could just make it one more block, he might have a chance.
The pharmacy’s sign appeared in the distance, a beacon of hope in this nightmare. Lance’s pace quickened, ignoring the discomfort.
Almost there.
He made it.
The automatic doors hissed open, releasing a wave of stale air. He hesitated at the threshold. Inside, he could see a sea of panicked faces, bodies pressed together in a chaotic jumble.
Lance’s stomach churned. The thought of wading into that crowd made him want to hurl. Guess this is what we get when the entire fucking world is sick.
He stepped in and the cacophony of voices washed over him like a tidal wave.
The pharmacist, a harried-looking man with thinning hair, shouted over the din. “Please, everyone! We don’t have the treatment yet. We’re out of most medications. I can’t—”
His words were drowned out by a fresh wave of angry voices.
Lance elbowed his way through the crowd, muttering apologies as he went. The pharmacy shelves were picked clean, empty spaces where cold and flu remedies once stood.
No surprise there.
He reached the counter, gripping the edge to keep from swaying. “Hey,” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the noise. “What’s the deal with the cure? They said on the news to come here.”
The pharmacist’s eyes met his with a flicker of sympathy. “Sorry, man. We’re cleaned out. We got one batch. Five for staff, the rest gone in minutes. Got thousands of people on the waitlist now.” He glanced at the door. “Supposed to get more any time, but...” He shook his head. “Your best shot will be to try the hospital.”
Lance’s shoulders slumped. “Right. Thanks.”
He turned, fighting against the current of bodies still pouring in. The air felt thick. Oppressive. Elbows jabbed his ribs and shoulders slammed into him as he inched towards the exit.
Outside, the relative quiet was a blessing. Lance leaned against the building, gulping in fresh air and taking out his phone.
[2:50 PM]
The hospital was half a mile away. In his current state, it might as well have been on the moon. At least there was another pharmacy in between.
As he shuffled in the hospital’s direction, a siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. An ambulance screamed past, its lights contrasting with the afternoon sun and painting the street in flashes of red and white.
Wonder if they’ve got room for one more.
Lance pushed off from the wall, his legs wobbling beneath him. He had to keep moving. Standing still felt too much like giving up.
The next pharmacy was only a few blocks away. Maybe he’d have better luck there.
He moved forward, each step a small victory. The streets were eerily empty now, save for the occasional car speeding by, its occupants’ faces masks of fear and determination.
A fit of coughing doubled him over, his lungs spasming painfully. He braced himself against a lamppost, waiting for the attack to pass.
Keep it together, man.
When he straightened, his vision swam. The world tilted dangerously.
No. Not now.
But his body had other ideas. Lance’s knees buckled, and he felt himself falling. The sidewalk rushed up to meet him.
Darkness…
***
A voice. Distant. Muffled.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
A face swam into focus above him. A man, mid-forties maybe, concern etched into the lines around his eyes.
“Can you hear me?”
“I’m fine…I’m fine,” Lance mumbled. “It’s just that NARS-sickness.”
He grasped the man’s outstretched hand, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.
“We all have NARS,” said the man. “Well, best of luck to you.”
He mumbled a thanks to the stranger who’d helped him up, watching the man’s retreating back as he hurried away.
He limped forward, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through his leg. The hospital loomed in the distance, a concrete monolith against the hazy sky. Between him and salvation stood another pharmacy, its neon sign flickering weakly in the afternoon light.
Worth a shot, he thought, ambling to the entrance.
The automatic door swished open, and Lance’s face was blasted by a wave of humid air and the scent of sweat and armpit and musk and stale breath. Déjà vu, he thought grimly.
Inside, the scene was eerily familiar. Bodies pressed together, a sea of desperation, fear, anger… hopelessness.
Screw this. I’ll try the hospital.
Which was close now. Maybe a quarter mile.
One foot in front of the other, Lan. You can do this. He kept going like that until he finally crossed the emergency room threshold.
He made his way towards the admissions desk, where a harried nurse was shouting instructions to the crowd.
“If you’re here for the new treatment, please form a line to the left! We’re administering as quickly as we can, but supplies are limited. Please be patient!”
Lance’s heart leapt. Finally.
He turned towards the growing line. The queue snaked through the waiting room, disappearing around a corner.
Damn. Just... damn.
He took his place at the end. His knee throbbed, and he glanced down, surprised to see blood seeping through his sweatpants. He hadn’t even realized he’d hurt himself when he fainted earlier. Still, the pain was nothing compared to what this sickness was doing to him. The Novel Acute Radiation Syndrome—NARS, (N)ARS, or whatever the hell they were officially calling it—was tearing him apart from the inside. He pressed his palms against his ears, trying to block out the discord of voices and beeping machines.
Time stretched and warped. Lance lost track of how long he’d been standing there. Minutes? Hours? The line inched forward at an agonizing pace.
Finally, he rounded the corner. A makeshift treatment station had been set up, nurses working feverishly to administer shots.
He was so close now.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the front of the line. Raised voices. A scuffle.
“What do you mean you’re out?” someone shouted. “I’ve been waiting for hours!”
A knot formed in Lance’s throat. Wait what? No. Not now.
A nurse’s voice cut through the din. “Please, everyone! We’ve exhausted our current supply. We’re expecting more soon, but for now, we need to—”
Her words were drowned out by a chorus of angry voices.
Sure, develop a cure in record time. Pat yourselves on the back. But good fucking luck producing enough doses for eight billion people. The thought made his already boiling blood boil more.
Lance stepped out of the line. He headed for the exit. Once outside, his legs finally gave out. He slid to the floor, the cool concrete clashing with his feverish form. Despite the chill autumn air and the bare branches of nearby trees, sweat continued to bead on his forehead and soak through his shirt. A sharp pain shot through his knee as the fabric of his sweatpants, now dried and fused to his wound, tore away from his skin. He hissed through his teeth. His phone moved to his hand. He hit Alex’s contact and waited…
“Lance? Holy shit, you’re alive!”
Lance frowned. “Uh, last time I checked. Alex, what’s with the dramatics?”
There was a pause on the other end. When Alex spoke again, his voice was softer. “Lance... everyone from Qualtech is gone. Dead.”
“What? Who’s dead?”
“Everyone,” Alex repeated. “Mike, Emily, Dave...even the new hire. It’s just you and me left from the company.”
“Wait, what?” he muttered. “Jesus Christ. I knew it was bad, but... fuck. The New hire? You mean Valentina?” Lance asked, feeling an unexpeggggcted pang of regret for the vibrant woman he’d only just met.
“Yeah,”
Swallowing hard, Lance steered the conversation to more pressing matters. “Listen, I need to get this NARS treatment. You got yours yet?”
“Got it at noon. I’m feeling a million times better already.”
“Lucky bastard,” Lance grumbled. “I’ve struck out at every pharmacy within crawling distance. Where did you get yours?”
“There’s a pharmacy below my apartment building. I dropped everything and got in line the second they made the announcement. And believe it or not, I was only lucky to snag the very last dose.”
“Damn... You have any idea where I can get mine? Didn’t we have some contract with a local pharma company? Maybe you could call them or shoot me their number?”
“Yes, you’re right, let me make a few calls…How bad is it for you?”
Lance leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m not loving my odds of making it to tomorrow.”
“Shit. Okay, okay, hang tight, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Appreciate it,” Lance said, his trademark sarcasm failing to mask the genuine gratitude in his voice.
“Before I go… How’s your mom doing?”
“She texted me earlier. Got her shot at the VA, so she’s fine.”
“Good, that’s good. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.”
“Thanks, boss,” Lance murmured, ending the call.
He let the phone drop to his lap, grateful that he was sitting on the sidewalk as he felt his consciousness fade once again.
***
A vibration in his lap jolted him awake. His neck screamed from pain and stiffness as he lifted his head from the concrete wall. How long had he been out? Minutes? Hours? he asked himself. The sun’s position hadn’t changed much, at least.
Alex’s name flashed on the screen. Hope surged through him as he fumbled to answer.
“Yeah?”
“Lance, I’ve got something. Called BioNova. They’re running a clinical trial.”
Lance straightened, wincing. “Gimme the details.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“It’s high-risk. Not on the FDA’s Emergency Use Authorization list.”
A dry chuckle escaped Lance’s lips. “At this point, I’d inject myself with drain cleaner if it means I don’t die. What’s the catch?”
Alex’s sigh crackled through the speaker. “It’s... not cheap. They’re asking for a ‘substantial donation’ to participate.”
“How substantial we talking?”
“Twenty grand.”
Lance’s eyebrows launched like missiles. “Jesus. They’re not messing around.” He paused, considering. “Screw it. I’m in. Where is this place?”
“You sure about this? The risks—”
“Alex,” Lance cut him off, “I’m sitting on a sidewalk outside an ER, my left pant leg is drenched in blood, pretty sure I pissed myself at some point, and I can’t feel my left foot. I’m sure.”
Another sigh. “Alright. It’s at 1420 Morris Street. That’s—”
“Holy shit,” Lance interrupted. “That’s like three blocks from here.”
“I’ll call them back, get you on the list,” Alex said. “Lance... let me know how it goes.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you back later. And Alex? Thanks.”
Lance ended the call, a grim smile on his face. Twenty grand for a shot in the dark. But at least it was a shot.
Lance stared at the e-scooters parked in the corner and thought, salvation on two wheels, dragging himself to his feet.
Pain.
He limped towards the cluster of scooters. As he approached, he scanned the lineup, searching for one with a full battery.
There.
A lime-green scooter, its display showing a full charge, stood out from the rest. With phone in hand, he pulled up the app to unlock it.
Come on, come on.
The scooter beeped to life, its small screen illuminating with a cheerful welcome message.
[Hello, rider! Ready for an adventure?]
Lance almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, half-dead and desperate, and this little machine was acting like he was about to embark on a fun joyride.
He swung his right leg over the scooter, then gingerly attempted to lift his left. As soon as he placed weight on it, a crunch followed by a jolt of pain shot through his kneecap.
Not that one, he thought, gritting his teeth. Carefully, he shifted his weight onto his right leg, keeping his injured left one suspended millimeters from the footboard. The handlebars felt cool against his sweaty palms as he gripped them tightly.
Lance pushed off, the electric motor humming to life. To 1420 Morris Street. Three blocks. You can do this.
The wind whipped past his face, providing momentary relief from the heat radiating from his skin. He weaved through abandoned cars and debris littering the street, the world around him a blur of decay and desperation.
The scooter’s display showed his speed: [15 mph]. Under normal circumstances, it would have felt exhilaratingly fast. Now, it felt agonizingly slow.
Faster, he urged silently, as if his thoughts could somehow coax more speed from the machine.
As he zipped past storefronts with boarded-up windows and makeshift “Closed” signs, he almost failed to notice a figure stumbling out from an alley directly into his path. He swerved, narrowly avoiding a collision. Narrowly losing control. Narrowly crashing straight into a rusty dumpster overflowing with soggy cardboard boxes and torn trash bags that were spilling rotting food onto the cracked pavement where a mangy cat darted away hissing, its fur bristling, its eyes wide with fear mirroring his own panic as the scooter wobbled beneath him. But undoubtedly sending pain shooting through his body.
“Watch it, asshole!” the figure shouted, their words slurred and angry.
Lance didn’t bother to respond. Not worth it.
The street numbers blurred past. 1200... 1300...
Please let this work. Please let them have what I need.
Lance’s heart raced. He was so close now he could taste it. Or maybe that was just the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Who knew?
And then—there it was. 1420 Morris Street. A sleek, modern office building with gleaming glass windows. A discreet but elegant sign identified it as BioNova’s headquarters. No line of desperate people seeking salvation.
Nothing.
Lance hesitated, confused. He brought the scooter to a stop, nearly toppling over as he dismounted. His legs felt like jelly, threatening to give way as he limped his way towards the building’s entrance.
He entered the building. His footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. And he made his way to the reception desk.
A woman sat behind it, her natural curly hair styled in an impressive afro. Her medium brown skin glowed under the soft lighting, and her almond-shaped eyes met Lance’s with a calm, almost detached professionalism.
“Can I help you?”
Lance swallowed hard. “I’m here for the... clinical trial.”
She nodded, as if he’d just asked for directions to the nearest coffee shop. “Name?”
“Lance…Lawthorn.”
Her fingers danced across the keyboard, eyes flicking to the screen. A moment passed.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Lawthorn. Thank you for coming.” She reached beneath the desk and produced a clipboard with several sheets of paper. “I’ll need you to fill out these forms. Medical history, consent, and payment information.”
Lance’s hand trembled as he took the clipboard. “Thanks.”
He turned, scanning the lobby for a place to sit. A plush leather armchair beckoned from the corner. He limped towards it.
The chair enveloped him as he sank into its soft embrace. Lance stared at the forms, the words swimming before his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to focus.
Medical history. Easy enough. No major illnesses, no surgeries. Until now, he’d been the picture of health. He scribbled down the information, his usually neat handwriting a shaky scrawl.
Consent form. Pages of legalese that essentially boiled down to “we’re not responsible if this kills you.” Lance’s pen hovered over the signature line. Was he seriously going to do this? Twenty grand for an experimental treatment?
Either die to this or to NARS? Fifty-fifty coin flip, he joked, almost crying.
He signed.
Payment information. Lance pulled out his phone, fingers fumbling as he accessed his banking app. The balance of his savings account stared back at him. More than enough to cover the “donation,” but it would leave him with almost nothing left.
Better broke than dead.
He filled in his account details, authorizing the transfer. The receptionist’s calm demeanor suddenly made sense. When you’re charging desperate people twenty grand a pop, you can afford to be unflappable. A pop that might…
… What’s the worst that could happen? Lance thought bitterly. Die? Been knocking on that door already. But what if it causes brain damage? Leave me a drooling vegetable? Or maybe it does jack shit and I croak from NARS anyway…
He shook the thoughts away and shuffled back to the desk, handing over the clipboard.
The receptionist took it with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Lawthorn. Let me just verify everything.”
She scanned the forms, her expression unchanging. Lance’s heart pounded while his breath came slow and warm and sometimes didn’t even come out at all. And his gaze darted around and his fingers lightly tapped the receptionist’s counter.
“Everything seems to be in order and the payment has been processed,” she said finally. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
Relief washed over him. “How long—”
“Shortly,” she repeated, her tone brooking no argument.
Lance nodded, turning back to the waiting area. The leather chair called to him again, but he hesitated. Sitting meant the possibility of passing out again. Instead, he paced, limping, ignoring the protests of his body.
Minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. Lance’s gaze darted between the elevator doors and the receptionist, willing something to happen.
Come on, come on.
His vision blurred, the edges of his sight growing dark. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a decorative table. A vase teetered precariously before settling back into place—
‘Ding!’ went the elevator.
Lance’s head snapped up. The doors slid open, revealing a man in a white lab coat. He stepped out, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the lobby.
“Mr. Lawthorn?”
“That’s me,” Lance said.
The man nodded, gesturing towards the elevator. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
As he stepped into the elevator, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished metal doors.
I’ll be lucky if I make it till bedtime.
The doors closed with a soft thud, and Lance felt the slight lurch as the elevator began to ascend.
“I’m Dr. Reeves,” the man said, his voice clipped and professional. “I’ll be overseeing your treatment today.”
Lance nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The elevator continued its journey upward, each floor bringing him closer to... what? Salvation? Or something else entirely?
The elevator slowed, then stopped. The doors opened with a cheerful ding that seemed wildly out of place given the circumstances.
“This way,” Dr. Reeves said, stepping out into a sterile white hallway.
Lance followed, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor—but not before leaving a fresh heap of vomit inside the elevator. It wasn’t that bad; he hadn’t been able to eat anything since the day before.
“Don’t worry about it, just follow me,” Dr. Reeves said.
This is what twenty grand gets me? I get to vomit in elevators and they clean it.
They passed door after door, each one identical and unmarked.
Finally, Dr. Reeves stopped in front of one, swiping a keycard. The lock disengaged with a soft click.
“After you, Mr. Lawthorn.”
Lance hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the doorway. Inside was a large, clinical room.
A row of reclining chairs lined one wall, some already occupied by other desperate souls seeking salvation. The antiseptic smell burned his nostrils, yet strangely, it felt nice compared to the stench of his own sweat and blood.
Dr. Reeves gestured to an empty chair. “Take a seat, Mr. Lawthorn. A nurse will be with you shortly to administer your shot.”
Nod.
Lance lowered himself into the chair and glanced at the man in the adjacent chair, noting the pallor of his skin and the slight tremor in his hands.
The man caught his eye and offered a weak smile. “Desperation?”
Lance snorted. “That obvious, huh?”
“You wouldn’t be here, if you weren’t,” the man almost whispered. “Name’s Carl.”
“Lance,” he replied, then immediately wondered why he bothered with introductions. It wasn’t like they were going to become best friends after this.
Carl nodded, then winced, pressing a hand to his temple. “Damn headaches. They say you start feeling better immediately.”
“Who said that?” Lance asked.
“The woman who just left…” Carl trailed off, squinting and tilting his head back. “She was sitting right where you’re sitting.”
“So, it works, right?”
Carl shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible. “Everyone who works here seems fresh, that’s a good sign, isn’t?”
“Uh, I guess.”
Silence fell between them, and Lance’s gaze wandered around the room, taking in the other patients. Some sat with eyes closed, perhaps praying or simply trying to block out reality. Others fidgeted nervously, eyes darting between the door and the other occupants.
A nurse entered, her scrubs pristine, her face obscured by a mask. She moved to the far end of the row, starting the procedure for a trembling woman. Lance watched, his heart rate quickening as he realized his turn was approaching.
The nurse sanitized her hands and donned a fresh pair of gloves. She then swabbed the woman’s upper arm with an alcohol wipe—he could smell it three chairs over. From a nearby tray, she picked up a pre-filled syringe, carefully removing the cap. Lance’s eyes followed her movements as she pinched the flesh of the woman’s arm, creating a bulge of muscle. In one swift motion, she inserted the needle at a 90-degree angle, pushed the plunger smoothly, and withdrew it. The entire process took mere seconds. She pressed a small cotton ball to the injection site, secured it with a bandage, and moved on to the next patient. Lance’s arm twinged in anticipation, a mix of dread and hope coursing through him in equal measure.
“You married?” Carl’s question broke through Lance’s spiraling thoughts.
“No,” Lance replied, grateful for the distraction. “Never found the right person, I guess.”
“Kids?” Carl asked.
“Nope.”
“Lucky,” Carl said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got two. A boy and a girl. They’re with my sister now. They were able to get the shot at the hospital, but I wasn’t so lucky. I told them... I told them I’d be back soon.”
Lance gulped, unsure how to respond. He’s scared he might not return to them.
“I’m sure you will be,” Lance offered weakly, donning the mask once more.
Carl’s laugh was a harsh, brittle sound. “Yeah, sure. One way or another, right?”
“And your wife?”
“She’s not here anymo—” Carl didn’t finish the sentence. He looked away, his head ducking sharply as he turned to face the other side. Lance heard a muffled sound that might have been a cough, or something else entirely.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, unsure of what else to say.
Lance closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, a nurse was standing in front of him, her eyes meeting his over her mask. “Mr. Lawthorn? Are you ready?”
“Yes,” he said, startled.
“My name is Linda, and I’ll be taking care of you. We need to do one last screening before we start the gene therapy. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“Um,” Lance said, his voice hoarse, “how exactly does this work?”
Dr. Reeves turned, a syringe in his gloved hand. “It’s quite simple, really. We administer the experimental treatment, and then monitor you for the next 24 hours to observe its effects.”
Lance eyed the syringe warily. “And the success rate? Is it safe?”
The nurse chuckled lightly. “Actually, it’s safer than the flu vaccine. This isn’t a virus as originally thought. It’s more similar to radiation sickness.”
Lance’s brows furrowed, then shot skyward. “Radiation?”
“Yes. Technically, if we’re being precise, this is a form of gene therapy. The procedure itself is quite simple, which is why it was developed so quickly.” She paused, ensuring Lance was following. “It contains a synthetic nucleotide sequence that, when introduced to human DNA, creates a protective barrier against the foreign energy. Essentially, it’s the same sequence that GlobeMed, Synergy, and other pharmaceutical companies are distributing to the general public, but BioNova is working to improve it, make it safer.”
“Foreign energy?” Lance frowned. “What does that mean?”
The nurse shrugged slightly. “That... we don’t know yet.”
“Great,” Lance muttered.
“Fantastic,” she smiled under her mask—or at least Lance thought so. “I’ll go through some questions and then we’ll administer the dose. Have you been outside the country in the last 30 days?”
“No.”
“Any alcohol in the last 48 hours?”
Lance blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. I had some. Why?”
The nurse’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid we can’t administer the treatment until it’s been at least 48 hours since your last drink.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lance groaned. “Why the hell not?”
“Alcohol interferes with your body’s ability to incorporate and express the new genetic material,” she explained. “More importantly, it can prevent the genetically engineered protein from properly bonding with your DNA. Without this bond, you’re not protected, and the symptoms will worsen.”
Lance tugged at the ends of his hair, frustration evident. “So, what? I just sit around and hope I don’t keel over in the meantime?”
The nurse’s tone softened. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Lawthorn. Would it be 48 hours by tomorrow?”
Lance did some quick mental math. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Then I strongly recommend you come back first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll have a spot ready for you.”
Fan-fucking-tastic, Lance thought.
“I’ll be dead by then,” he muttered, then caught himself. “Wait, no. I’m sorry, I made a mistake. I didn’t drink anything two days ago. Obviously, I wouldn’t drink on a Monday.” He forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears.
The nurse’s eyebrow arched with practiced professionalism. “Mr. Lawthorn, I appreciate you trying to expedite the process, but we take these precautions very seriously. Either way, we’ll need to do a blood test to confirm your alcohol levels before we can proceed.”
Lance’s forced smile faltered. “A blood test? Is that really necessary?”
“It’s standard procedure,” the nurse said firmly. “We can’t take any chances with this procedure. If you’ve truly been alcohol-free for 48 hours, you have nothing to worry about.”
At that moment, another nurse walked past Linda, carrying a gleaming metal tray with a syringe and other hardware on it, and set it on a small table next to Carl’s station.
He looked at it, the shiny tray practically calling his name. Screw this.
Lance’s eyes locked on the needle. His muscles tensed. Adrenaline surged. His chair scraped back. He lunged forward.
His shoulder slammed into Linda. She stumbled. Gasped. Lance’s hand shot out.
Fingers closed around the syringe. He yanked it off the tray. The second nurse yelped. But Lance didn’t hesitate. He jabbed the needle into his thigh. Pushed the plunger. The liquid burned. And he dropped back into his chair with a long sigh and a smile of relief.
“What the fuck, dude!” Carl yelled.
Shouts erupted. Hands grabbed at him. But it was water off a duck’s back; he was feeling better already. He could feel the anxiety washing away from his body—although, he was pretty sure it was just the placebo effect. It didn’t matter. What’s done is done. Not that he believed in destiny, but...quite frankly, it was up to destiny now.
“My shot’s prepaid for. You can give it to Carl.”